


The Ingenious Gentleman Martin Crieff

by AnObviousFact



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Douglas Accepts the Challenge Like a Champ, Douglas is a Sweetheart, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, MJN Air Is A Family, Martin Crieff Needs a Hug, Martin Crieff feels, Martin Whump, Sweet, Title Borrowed from Don Quixote
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:51:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3682194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnObviousFact/pseuds/AnObviousFact
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes nothing goes right. Sometimes you're bruised and humiliated and angry and locked out of your building in the middle of the night. But also, sometimes things go right enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ingenious Gentleman Martin Crieff

**Author's Note:**

> Very recently discovered the gem that is Cabin Pressure. Having a blast with it, and needed to write some fluff. Writing fluff is my therapy (if therapy was something that makes you crazier). If reading fluff is your therapy, well, here you go. 
> 
> This would be set sometime after Helena and Douglas split up. Though this story has nothing to do with that.

 

 

Tears stung his eyes as Martin ploughed on, and he blinked them back, annoyed that he was the sort whose eyes welled up when he was hurt or humiliated. That he couldn’t bear it stoically the way strong men were supposed to. He _did_ bear things stoically—or sort-of stoically—all the time, but sometimes, he just _couldn’t_. It didn’t matter what he wanted, the tears were just there, ready to fall like the humiliating icing on the humiliating cake at the humiliating party to celebrate his abject humiliation. Come one, come all. Martin Crieff is blubbering again.

He wasn’t blubbering. In actuality. He was walking. And blinking. And sniffling _a little_ , but mostly just walking. Because he was locked out of his own attic flat, and he was without his shoes and in fact only wearing the loose grey sweatpants and navy jumper that acted as his night attire, and his socks were thick but wet and squelchy, and his wrist was a bit stiff and might be swelling, and his knees and hands were scraped raw, and his head hurt, and his everything else was bruised. And he was angry, and it _wasn’t_ _right_. Why did it never seem to matter to anyone else when something wasn’t right?

He was out walking aimlessly and all alone, and he refused to even think the words _At least it isn’t raining_ because…well, he wasn’t superstitious or anything, and he didn’t _really_ think the world was out to get him, but…oh, just because.

Martin didn’t mind about the parties. Really he didn’t. Students were students after all. Even agricultural ones. So there were bound to be some parties, and he understood that. Actually they only occurred quite rarely. Parkside Terrace wasn’t a structure built to accommodate any sort of large, freestanding audience, so any “parties” that came about were generally small enough and tame enough the term “party” itself could reasonably be ensconced in quotation marks. “We’ve got a ‘party’ on tonight, Martin. Hope you aren’t bothered.” With the finger quotes and a bit of an eye roll and a friendly conspiratorial smile. Like, _Yeah, we’re all a bit pathetic here, but we have fun._ Just drinks and low music and _board games_ most of them, and sometimes the laughing got a bit loud, but it had never been a real problem for Martin up in the attic. This one had finally been a problem. A party. With no lovely, condescending quotation marks to be found.

He’d been up in his little attic flat, of course. Sitting in the middle of his single bed absently quizzing himself on the newest set of standard operating procedures—bit of a daft exercise as he’d written most of them himself—and nervously tossing a potato from hand to hand as the music below got louder and louder until he could feel the vibrations through his bed frame. He found potatoes don’t have quite the same satisfying pop as apples.

Periodically he’d stand up on the bed and peer out the small window to the street below as more and more vehicles seemed to appear up and down the street in front of the building. Some of them parked illegally. And along with the pounding music, there were the sounds of people—laughing and shouting and dancing—and the occasional thump or glass breaking. It built up and built up until Martin was standing in the middle of his room, looking around and biting his lip and trying not to feel the anxiety-irritation-apprehension-resentment-nerves that came to take up residence in every part of his insides between tonsils and lower intestines.

It wasn’t as if he _wanted_ to go down there and tell them to please keep it down. _He didn’t._ And it wasn’t as if he _wanted_ all the people to go away and leave him peacefully not having to worry over what was getting broken or torn up or stained downstairs. _He did._ But if one of the neighbors on the street were to call in the disturbance, and the police showed up… What if they thought _he_ was the one in charge, and he caught all the blame? He was the oldest, after all. The responsible adult. And while the irony of worrying someone _would_ assume he was of the highest rank didn’t escape him, he knew how his life tended to work, and he really didn’t want to top off this miserable night with an ASBO.

He went downstairs. Eventually. After a brief—not very brief—mostly-internal debate over whether he ought to wear his captain’s hat or not. He thought it added the flair and severity of authority. And made him look taller. A bit. But in the end he left it on his old writing desk both because he didn’t want it within reach of the drunken, unpredictable hoard of twenty-somethings and also because he’d been able to cite to himself a depressing number of cases he’d had his hat and the people around him had still been able leave his flair and severity entirely overlooked.

The air on the main floor was hot and close and smelled of sweat and cheap cologne and cheaper alcohol, all mixed with roughly a dozen other things that added up to unpleasant. As he looked for a familiar face of one of the resident students, Martin found himself bounced around among writhing, teeming mass of people and trying not to be alarmed. The students he shared the house with were all decent enough young people. Probably if he found one of them, they’d be helpful and understanding.

There were just so many people crammed together, the familiar space of the common areas was all but unrecognizable. Martin was afraid even to look to see what state the kitchen was in. And of all the faces he could make out in the unreliable light, none of them were faces he knew.

In due course, he found himself jostled into the sitting room, trying to convince himself he didn’t need to theorize on what various liquids might be soaking into his socks from the sticky floor. He’d blinked his eyes several times in quick succession. There was a young man on the far side of the room, cutting the tassels off the shade of the old floor lamp with a Swiss Army knife. Martin had never particularly cared for the old floor lamp. Never even counted it particularly noteworthy. It had been there when he moved in. But that miscreant was _cutting off its tassels_ and drunkenly trying to affix them to his shirt with what might’ve been outdoor tarp grip clips. To the delight of his similarly drunken mates.

That…that, that…that was vandalism. They were vandalizing! And it wasn’t Martin’s lamp, and it wasn’t even what Martin would consider his home, but it certainly was where he lived for the time being and had lived for a great lot of previous time beings, and they were _cutting tassels off things_!

He’d said in his most authoritarian voice, “No. Hey! No, no. No, you…you can’t _do_ that!” as he’d pushed his way across the room, and he’d said it loudly enough the vandal could hear him over the music.

The next part was a bit of a blur. He’d very sternly tried to express his feelings in regards to the destruction of private property and the importance of life choices in general, but he hadn’t actually gotten very far in his expression. The boy laughed at him. Up close, this student wasn’t anything impressive. Sort of tall, but in an average way, and a bit nuggety in that way older men tended to look, though he couldn’t have been much over twenty. But he’d looked down at Martin and laughed, and his friends, the ones close around enough to hear, laughed with him.

Martin tried not to get flustered. Tried to control the way his mind tended to skip so he ended up stuttering like a scratched CD. Tried just to _explain_. Even while the young man had decided Martin didn’t belong, must be some sort of party crasher or something, and hauled him by the wrist across the room to the door as if he was the bouncer at a bar and _Martin_ was drunk and disorderly.

The boy had called him small. The word used was “little.”

His grip had been painfully tight, fingers digging in hard enough that Martin’s fingertips went tingly-numb, and the young man didn’t seem to notice. Seemed to be in a good mood all the time he dragged Martin to the door. Giggling like an idiot with stolen tassels clipped to his shirt approximately around where his nipples were underneath.

One of the boy’s friends graciously opened the front door.

Martin hardly had time to think, _This can’t actually be happening._ “Ow, stop, you can’t…”

“Go on, then, out you get.” He hadn’t pushed Martin the way you’d push a child on the swing, starting with your arm pulled back and following through in the direction you wanted the swing to go. That would’ve been bad enough, probably. But he let go of Martin’s wrist all at once and placed his fingertips on Martin’s chest, and in one short, sharp movement, dropped his wrist so his cupped palm _hit_ Martin just under the sternum.

Whether it was on purpose or not it was impossible to tell, but it landed like a blow. It had a sort of concussive force that was so unexpected it knocked the wind right out of Martin’s lungs so he made a “ _Hutgh_ ” sound, and he was so far off-balance already he didn’t have half a chance to try to react before he was falling backwards.

There were six front steps. Not so many. But concrete was terribly unforgiving. He’d at least managed to tuck in a bit, turn the journey into more of a side roll than a backwards sprawl, and in doing so miraculously avoided smacking the back of his head. The sharp steps made for a quick beating of his back and elbows, and he banged his knee rather well. The momentum was such that he’d skidded for a bit across the walk, nearly to the street, and his one hand was still a bit numb from being squeezed so hard and wouldn’t do much for holding him up. So he did knock his right temple against the ground then. Not so hard to knock him out, but just right for a sudden, sparking headache.

There was blind, reason-robbing panic the seconds—minutes? Hours?—it took before he could take a breath. It hurt. Very much it hurt. Adrenaline and pain and the fright of the sudden fall left him trembling, his scraped knees weak and rubbery as he pushed himself up to kneel, and all of him seemed to be pulsing. All the world seemed to be pulsing. There was a rushing sound in his ears, fading into a sustained, single-tone ring.

The first thing he recognized after he could hear past the ring and his own aborted breaths was the laughter. He forced his head up. There was the boy. And four others crowded in the doorway.

“And you can’t come back, either!” he called, like it was a joke. Almost friendly. Like Martin was a good sport for playing along, being a great part of the bit.

Martin had felt his face get unbearably hot, felt the tears flood into his eyes. Shame and embarrassment and just _not understanding_.

But nobody seemed to notice his tears or his trembling. The boy just dusted his hands off with exaggerated claps. Then the door slammed. The door slammed shut. Martin was left on the walk, shuffling painfully on the torn knees of his sweatpants, outside the place where he lived.

It had taken a fair amount of moments to push himself up onto his feet, and his knees had shaken for a long time after. They were a bit shaky now, two hours later, but it was more from fatigue than anything. Though the right one that had taken the brunt of his spill was wanting him to limp a bit now. He was cold. And tired. And he hurt all over.

When he’d been stood outside looking up at Parkside Terrace, he’d thought of going back inside. Stealing back up to his flat. Seemed unlikely the young man or his friends would be interested enough in him to have another go of it. Not every crowd was into repeat gags. And even if they’d locked the door, he could knock. If any of the resident students answered, they’d certainly let him in. Maybe even look apologetic. But in the end, he couldn’t do it. He’d stared at the steps. And he’d turned and walked away.

He was glad now that he could convince himself he’d walked away only because he’d thought it through and responsibly decided it was inevitable someone on the street would call the police, and really it was best he find somewhere else to spend the night to avoid the trouble. But mostly he couldn’t face climbing those steps and facing the throngs of people who belonged in his building better than he did tonight.

And that was a thing. Some sort of universal…thing. That student and his friends hadn’t hurt him because they were cruel. He knew the difference. It wasn’t that they liked hurting people. They’d hurt him because it was funny. They’d hurt him because somehow, _somehow_ he was someone other people were allowed to hurt. And he couldn’t understand _why_.

When other people were hurt people got outraged on their behalf. And that was good. He was in support of that. But why was he different then? Was it because he was nervous? Because he was awkward? Because he was short or obsessed with flying or ginger, what?

Their laughter played back in his ears, and it was a thousand other times.

Prissy, pathetic, pitiful. Useless. Often it was _useless_. Sometimes people even said it like they were being kind. _Oh, Martin. You’d make a useless pilot. You’re just not…eh. You’re just_ not _._ _Sorry._ Weak, hopeless, failure.

He’d never quite believed the hurtful things were true. He didn’t think he had. But he’d always been _afraid_ they were.

He remembered being on a playground as a child. Very young. Four or five years old. And he’d made a friend the way children were allowed to make friends: immediately and steadfastly and for as long as it remained convenient. That other little boy had said proudly he was going to be an astronaut. So Martin had just as proudly said he was going to be an aeroplane because he _loved_ aeroplanes. And the other little boy laughed and said “You can’t even fly,” and _pushed_. Martin remembered it vividly because the _shock_ of it. And even his father when he’d got home, when Martin had tried to explain something he couldn’t at all work out in his little child’s mind, his father had said with a sort of gentle smirk, “Well, Marty. It is a bit silly, isn’t it?” And he had not understood. No matter how old he got, he couldn’t make sense of it. Everything else about his life had changed from the way it was when he was four or five years old. But not that. That had somehow stayed the same.

People were allowed to push Martin Crieff because…because _some reason._ Because Martin Crieff apparently was small and inconsequential and silly, and it was some kind unchanging, widely-recognized social law.

He shook his head at himself. He didn't think he was a pessimist, or at least he didn't mean to be. He had the tendencies, but he didn't think he really was one. Certainly he wasn't an optimist. But he wasn't a realist either. He was just...he was a pilot. 

Quite awhile had passed before he’d realized he was walking with no clear direction. Until then, it had only seemed important to move and to keep moving away. As it was, it was only when he realized how cold his toes and fingers were and that his aching body wouldn’t actually be able to keep walking forever that he became conscious of the fact he needed a plan. A place. He needed a destination, somewhere he could stay. Well.

He had no money. Or phone. He didn’t know any establishment that would let him in looking the way he did, all shoeless and rough. His van was in the repair shop and would be until he returned from his next MJN flight. Carolyn and Arthur had already agreed to pick him up tomorrow afternoon for work.

There was something. He could make his way to the Knapp-Shappey residence. He dismissed the idea nearly before it was fully formed. It would be a foolish thing to bother them. Carolyn was his employer for one, and inconveniencing her would be ill-advised at best. And Arthur…Martin physically shook his head. Arthur would be full of questions and overly helpful, and Martin appreciated that about him all the times it wasn’t driving him batty, but…he didn’t think he’d be able to handle it gracefully at the moment. And besides that, Arthur was… He knew Arthur was a grown man, but frankly, he’d sooner try to explain what had happened to a six year old than to MJN’s steward. He could just hear the man asking with utter innocence, _Well, why’d they do that, Skip?_ And what would he say?

_I don’t know! I don’t know. They’re just allowed. It’s funny if it’s me, so they’re allowed._ Even just thinking the words made his eyes burn, and he knew if he had to face Arthur and any of his questions tonight, he’d come embarrassingly unglued.

Martin was startled out of absently chewing his bottom lip at the realization he must’ve bit the inside of it at some point during his tumble. He dabbed at it miserably with a dirty hand.

Where did that leave then? There was Douglas of course. He wasn’t even so far away from the first officer’s home. Would that be worth it, though? How would that even go? Douglas would open the door, already irritated at having been called out of bed in the middle of the night. Give Martin a once over, face going all smug and superior as he took in Martin’s bedraggled appearance. Make a snide remark, possibly several in a row, and all of them made worse by the fact that they would be so clever and perfect and so, so _funny_.

And probably Douglas would laugh and laugh at Martin, poor, pathetic old Martin, getting tossed out on his ear by some kid, right out the front door of his own building. Maybe Douglas wouldn’t let him in at all anyway. Maybe he’d laugh at him there on the doorstep, have his merry fun, and close the door when he was done. Like the others.

The thought of Douglas reacting like those drunken idiots did something in Martin. Like something snapped a bit in his brain.

_Well, that’s just… That’s just_ fine _then._

He found himself actually fuming. How dare Douglas? How _dare_ he? How could he _be_ so… so, so… _awful_? No. No, absolutely not. If he shut him outside, Martin would just pound on the door then. Really give it a proper pounding. Until Douglas came back, worried over his own nosy neighbors, and _then_ … Oh, then Martin would have a few choice words for his _first officer_.

Oh, yes. He’d really lay into Douglas, give him one great, seething diatribe he would never forget, and Douglas would see then. Because Martin _wasn’t_ pathetic. Or pitiful. Or _useless_ or weak or a failure. And while Douglas certainly didn’t owe him any special favors or even any hospitality, he _was not allowed_ just stand there and laugh at him like that.

And even if Martin’s tirade didn’t stop Douglas laughing, at least Martin would have told him. Said out loud that Martin Crieff was a man worthy of at least some modicum of respect, not only because he was a person—which he was by the way—but because he was a captain. That was something he’d done, something he’d fought for and continued to fight for every day, and even if he was awkward and clumsy and not all that particularly good at it all the time, he’d earned it. Douglas couldn’t take that away. The never-ending masses that agreed that surely _this one_ can’t be the _real_ captain couldn’t take that away. And stupid, drunk, laughing agricultural students couldn’t take that away. Martin Crieff mattered. He did. Regardless of anyone (everyone?) else’s opinion on the subject. Regardless of whether or not he was so _silly_. Maybe he wasn’t important the way other people seemed to find it so easy to be important, but he _did_ matter.

The seething fury actually seemed to make the time pass more quickly and the cold seem less biting and the pain less distracting. Next thing he knew he was up the steps to Douglas’s door, righteous anger tingling under his skin, closer to the surface than any of the fresh bruises. His knuckles rapped soundly, almost painfully against the door. He was ready. He was one hundred percent ready to let Douglas and anyone else have it.

The light above the door came on, and Martin slammed his eyes shut, wincing as the sudden brightness seared through his aching head. The door opened. “What’s it…” Douglas’s voice was rough, with sleep still clinging around the edges. The “ _Martin_?” that followed sounded much more coherent and much more astonished.

Martin forced his squinted eyes to open against the light. Douglas stood there in the doorframe, rumpled and pyjama-clad. Martin opened his mouth, determined to say his piece before Douglas could make any comment on what the cat had dragged in, but Douglas beat him anyway.

 “Martin. Good heavens. You… What _happened_?” And Martin’s words caught in his throat. It wasn’t supposed to sound that way. When Douglas spoke, it wasn’t supposed to sound that way. Large, gentle hands were on him then, touching his shoulder, his chin, guiding him closer with movements that were careful but urgent, across the threshold into the warmth, shaded light that didn’t feel so sharp. Douglas tossed the door carelessly closed behind him, leaning toward Martin intently. “Are you hurt anywhere badly?”

Martin was supposed to answer. No, he wasn’t supposed to answer; he was supposed to…to tirade. He was supposed to tell Douglas all the things, all the important things he was going to say loudly and impressively, and for once, he was going to get all of the words just right. He wouldn’t stutter or trip over them or fidget or be apologetic. He’d _say_ them.

But he was standing in Douglas’s foyer, and his filthy socks had dirtied the floor, and Douglas wasn’t even _looking_ at that. He was looking at Martin with urgency and concern and worry, and he _had_ shut the door, but he’d shut it with Martin on the same side as he was.

“ _Martin_ ,” Douglas repeated his name. He had one hand pressed against the side of Martin’s neck, thumb under his chin to tilt his head to the side as his other hand pushed at some of the curls near Martin’s temple. His hair felt sticky. He must’ve been bleeding a bit. He hadn’t realized he’d scraped his head when he fell. “Do I need to take you to the A & E?” He sounded ready to right then.

Martin shook his head no as well he could, and Douglas’s hands fell to his shoulders.

“ _Tell me what happened_.” Douglas tilted his head in question, his eyes narrowing at some unpleasant thought that must have occurred to him. “Did someone _do_ this?”

Martin managed a nod.

Douglas’s expression darkened all at once into a dangerously quiet, pre-storm rage. He only said one word, in one short syllable a demand and a promise, “ _Who_?”

Martin just stood there, mouth still open, with all the words he’d planned and rehearsed waiting on the tip of his tongue. And instead of saying a single one of them, he felt his face begin to crumble.

He saw Douglas draw in a surprised breath. Then his vision went blurry as all those tears that had been pressing achingly against the back of his eyes began sliding down his face first one by one then all at once. He wasn’t sure whether he leaned closer to Douglas or whether Douglas stepped closer to him, but then there were arms wrapping around his back, gathering him in in slow increments so he could get out if they hurt him accidentally. As it was, he could feel the bruises on his back and didn’t care. He buried his face in Douglas’s shoulder and allowed the tears, and Douglas just stood there and held him up and let him.

Martin _knew_ it would matter to Douglas. He knew it. Douglas who would always tease him and chide him and argue with him. But Douglas who would be _outraged_ if someone hurt him. Douglas who maybe, definitely thought he was silly, but Douglas who would never for a moment think it was silly he was hurting and bloodied and tired.

Douglas still didn’t even know what had happened. But Douglas still cupped one warm hand around the back of Martin’s neck and rubbed a calming line up and down his back with the other like that was hardly important. Even though he’d probably have to change out of his nice pyjamas before he could go back to bed because Martin was getting them all dirty and teary. Acting like Martin Crieff mattered more than the inconvenience.

This was all he wanted. Just for a minute, this. He didn’t need it. Could get by perfectly fine without it. But here was someone who was angry _with_ him. Alongside him. On his behalf. Who agreed with him on principle that someone pushing him down because he wasn’t particularly impressive was _wrong_. He sighed as his breathing returned to normal and the tears exhausted themselves.

It was just some stupid undergrad and his drunken buddies. It wasn’t personal. It was stupid and random. And Martin had only wound himself up because he thought he’d seen a pattern. And maybe it was a bit of a pattern and that was just his life, but there were people like Douglas—and Carolyn and Arthur, and of course he knew that, why should he doubt it—who would agree with him that what that boy did was entirely wrong.

He could feel Douglas breathing, slow, measured breaths. Waiting for him. Giving him no indication he ought to hurry along.

“It wasn’t…wasn’t actually anything dramatic,” Martin said when he thought he’d got his voice sorted. He still sounded a bit…cry-y and felt mildly embarrassed for falling apart like something awful had happened. He turned his head to the side so his face wasn’t so buried in Douglas’s shoulder and he could speak clearly, but didn’t go any further away than that. It made him wince when the bruised and scraped side of his head pressed up against the fabric of Douglas’s pyjamas. He left it there anyway. “There was a party back at the shared house. I…I got knocked down some steps. That’s all.”

“ _Knocked down_ , like an accident? Or _pushed_ , like…not an accident?”

“Pushed. But it wasn’t malicious.”

He felt Douglas tense, but his voice stayed light, and his hand didn’t stop stroking Martin’s back. “Wasn’t it? Oh, good. Yes, I can understand that. Just last week a dear friend jovially ran me down with his car.”

The sarcasm was normal and surprisingly welcome and somehow made Martin feel more at ease. His smile was quiet, and his answer was both offhand and over-enunciated. “Well, it wasn’t me.”

“No, if it were true, it would have to have been Arthur, wouldn’t it,” Douglas said thoughtfully.

“If he did have to run someone down with a car, he would do it jovially,” he agreed.

“Oh, indeed, yes. He would add a certain…approachability to the action hero genre.” Douglas chuckled a bit. “Ha. ‘If Arthur Shappey were a comic book hero,’” he mused.

“Hm?”

“I think it’d make a good game, that's all.”

“A game? Douglas, we’re not on the flight deck. We don’t have to…”

“Here, I’ll start. He could be ‘The Incredible _Help_.’”

“Oh, um. What," he played along, despite himself, and suddenly his brain was entirely occupied with trying to recall the names of superheroes. "The  _Sweet_ Lantern?"

“Nick Cheery.” Douglas sounded amused. “Director of FRIEND.”

“Agent Double-O Pleasant.”

“Oh, good one, Martin. Let’s see. Optimist Prime.”

“Um. Captain…” he began, hoping his brain would fill in the blank if he started talking. He drew a blank and finished lamely with, “Smiley?” He didn’t know why he should be expected to think anyway. He was sore, and it shouldn’t have been possible, but the repetitive motion of Douglas’s hand on his back was making him sleepy, and the banter was familiar and comfortable.

“‘Captain Smiley?” Douglas scoffed. “Sounds like the spokesman for a children’s toothpaste advert. What superhero is that supposed to be a spoof of?”

“You know,” Martin said, almost too tired to try to sound lofty. But not quite too tired. “One of the…Captain…ones.”

“You would like the captain ones.”

“Shut up, Douglas,” he grumbled without heat as he finally pushed away, rubbing at gritty eyes for a beat but feeling somehow wholer than he had.

“So are you going to tell me who it was?” Douglas asked like he’d never changed subjects at all, voice low and deceptively mild. When Martin looked up, the first officer’s eyes were fixed right on his face.

“No one. Or…I really don’t know actually.”

“You didn’t see him?”

“No, I did, I just…didn’t know him.”

“You didn’t know him? Then _why_ did he feel the need to do what he did?” he asked slowly with the Douglas Richardson brand of almost condescending patience.

It was the question Martin remembered dreading earlier. _Why?_ Now he only shrugged and hid a wince when his sore shoulder pulled. “I suppose I was being obnoxious,” he said with a small smile.

Douglas didn’t quite return it. “You often are. Yet my implicit request that members of the general public _not_ push you down stairs is nonetheless more often met with broad if grudging acquiescence.”

“He was drunk.”

“That’s _no_ _excuse_ ,” he said with startling sharpness. He seemed to catch himself and ran a hand through uncharacteristically mussed hair, and when he spoke again, it was with all the nonchalance in the world. “What would you bet that I could track him down?”

Martin blinked. He hadn't expected that. Not that Douglas was normally very predictable, but...he hadn't expected that. Surely he wasn't serious. “Douglas. I haven’t even given you his description.”

“So what would you bet?”

“Are you trying to trick me?”

“I’m always trying to trick you, Martin.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Or _am_ I?”

“Stop it. I’m not betting." Martin squinted at him. "What good would it do for you to track down some particular idiot who went to a party full of idiots?”

“Precious little good for the idiot, I’m afraid,” he answered with such a casual disinterest it nearly belied the dangerous set to his posture or the glint in his eye. Then he looked at Martin. “Come on, then and sit down, you great sopping mess. You look like you’ve been in a fight with…well, a whole host of stairs, actually. I can’t imagine Don Quixote looked as bad off after his tiff with the windmill.”

“I hardly think that’s a fair comparison,” he said with slight sulkiness. “Wasn’t Don Quixote insane?” 

“I’m not saying you _are_ Don Quixote. Though at times the similarities are _uncanny_.”

"The similarities between me and a crazy old man?"

"The similarities between an old man who wanted to be a knight and a boy who wanted to be an aeroplane."

Martin actually smiled a bit at that. “So would that make you Sancho Panza? My faithful squire?"

The sputtering look on Douglas’s face was priceless.

It was gone four in the morning or thereabouts when Martin found himself sort of ensconced in Douglas’s well-stuffed sofa, nodding off with the fingers of one hand holding a warm cup of tea to his chest. Douglas had the other hand, disinfecting the cuts with some sort of ointment, and Martin was warm enough and drowsy enough he’d all but quit flinching at the sting as he listened to the low, rumbling sound of his first officer grousing quietly things like “It’s a good job we don’t have to fly until tomorrow afternoon,” and “Were the steps covered in _sandpaper_?” as he moved from Martin’s hands to his forearms and elbows then to his knees.

Martin’s socks were gone, and his toes were finally thawing, and he thought he remembered Douglas saying something about letting the socks dry out for a spell so they’d take a spark when he set fire to them.

It was odd, being fussed over. His mother had taught him he shouldn’t be a bother when he was hurt or sick. That it wasn’t right to be a burden on someone else. Upon reflection, he thought maybe she hadn’t meant to teach him that. She had, regardless. But this was sort of nice. Even if Douglas’s version of fussing was blustery and gruff and quite rude in places, it really was very…kind.

“Martin? Martin.” He hadn’t realized he’d drifted off until Douglas brought him back with his voice and a hand that nudged at his shoulder. “Come on. There’s a guestroom upstairs.”

Martin struggled with heavy eyelids for a moment before giving up. His tea was gone. Where was...? Oh, he didn’t care. He shook his head and barely managed, “No.”

“You’d rather stay here?” Douglas asked, and Martin thought he sounded amused.

He didn’t even bother with nodding. “Yes.”

“Well, at least lie down.”

He thought about it. But he was comfortable and still and warm, and lying down would take so much pointless effort. “Mm-mm.”

“You just want me to leave you like this? Sitting up like an old man in his rocker.”

“Mmhm.”

He heard a longsuffering sigh, and there was a bit of shuffling before a blanket tucked itself around him. “You’ll get no sympathy from me when you wake up tomorrow with your back and neck  hopelessly cricked.” The blanket was adjusted brusquely followed by a short jostle to his curls. “Good night, Martin.”

“Hm,” he agreed. It wasn’t such a bad night. Oh, it was. But it also wasn’t. It could’ve been so much worse. Martin’s options had been so pathetically few. “Douglas. Mm, wait. _Douglas_?” He managed to sit forward a fraction and wrench his stubborn eyes open.

Douglas had paused at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the railing. “What is it now?” He sounded as exasperated as he always did, but the effect was ruined by the quick, assessing look of concern.

“Thank you,” Martin blurted. “I know…I know you didn’t exactly volunteer to…to play Sancho to my Don Quixote. Which I’m _not_. Don Quixote I mean. But you…I wouldn’t have…well. Thank you.”

Douglas inhaled a breath through his nose. “Well. Sir does seem to fight an awful lot of windmills,” he said. “But in the spirit of impartiality, I will say this,” he paused and gave a look that was almost commiserating, “sometimes in your case, the windmill takes the first swing.”

Whether it was his half-asleep brain lacking processing power or just Douglas being inscrutable, Martin didn’t follow his meaning. “Right. Sorry. I’ll make sure you don’t…that is…that you won’t have to play my imaginary squire again,” he promised.

“The _title_ was imaginary certainly,” he corrected with the reluctant but self-possessed air of a man about to impart some great wisdom. “But behind every pompous, delusional, ridiculous dreamer with a silly hat,” he gave a sort of defeated, shruggish smile and raised a pointed eyebrow, “there ought to be a realist with a well-stocked first aid kit.”

Martin’s sleep brain understood that. Really it was an insult. But more really, it was a reassurance. Martin did nothing about the grin that pulled at his swollen bottom lip as he sank gratefully back into the sofa and an exhausted sleep.

 


End file.
